hey, realtor

Excuse me
Miss Realtor (or Mr. Realtor,

 whatever):

I know you work in real-estate.

. . .so take me to a  

     – real estate .-

Yeah, sure this is

 ‘real:’ we can touch it.

But the windows

are just grains of sand

pressed into plates called ‘glass.’

A house of sand’s still of the 

land and in the san–

I’d rather.

Excuse me, Mr. Realtor, my 

temporary Gate-Keeper:

I’ve a basic need for shelter;

I am of this terrain.

Who are you, the way you flaunt

these boxes

beyond my budget and belief for

captivity at me??

We murdered trees (for these)!

For the Dead House

lain with varnished beams and no air-holes

to flora – to ox-y-gen

so suffocate our dreams go;

we sleep

on nothing

the trees/the trees.

For these!

In such a way that we are leaving

not even leaves.

How do you expect we breathe, Miss Realtor?

Without leaves and inside

dead wood boxes?

Can you show me something

in the form of a 

Live House– 

A live, dream, and Thrive House?

Can we look at a 

Treehouse, rooted

in dirt?

I’ll build the house, just

try not to hurt the living

object: I know 

you’re only used to Death.

But that can be fixed.

With Light

and Leaves

and Oxygen.

   -clw

     10-5-16
copyright: C. Ward 2016

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